Down Through The Woods, Along The Way That Fords The Stream; By Rock And Tree, Where In The Bramble-Bell The Bee Swings; And Through Twilights Green And Gray The Redbird Flashes Suddenly, My Thoughts Went Wandering To-Day. I Found The Fields Where, Row On Row, The Blackberries Hang Dark With Fruit; Where, Nesting At The Elder'S Root, The Partridge Whistles Soft And Low; The Fields, That Billow To The Foot Of Those Old Hills We Used To Know. There Lay The Pond, All Willow-Bound, On Whose Bright Face, When Noons Were Hot, We Marked The Bubbles Rise; Some Plot To Lure Us In; While All Around Our Heads, - Like Faery Fancies, - Shot The Dragonflies Without A Sound. The Pond, Above Which Evening Bent To Gaze Upon Her Gypsy Face; Wherein The Twinkling Night Would Trace A Vague, Inverted Firmament; In Which The Green Frogs Tuned Their Bass, And Firefly Sparkles Came And Went. The Oldtime Place We Often Ranged, When We Were Playmates, You And I; The Oldtime Fields, With Boyhood'S Sky Still Blue Above Them! - Naught Was Changed: Nothing. - Alas! Then, Tell Me Why Should We Be? Whom The Years Estranged.